


Pygmalion

by perpetuallycaffeinated



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetuallycaffeinated/pseuds/perpetuallycaffeinated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pulling Dean out of Hell is only the beginning of Castiel's mission</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pygmalion

Flames. Flames, chains and hooks and  heat.  That was all there was to Hell. There were smaller details, but they were unimportant in the grand tapestry of suffering. It was the heat and weight and press of the Pit that bore down on the angel Castiel. He could hear the results of torment on all sides of him, human souls and demons alike shrieking into the abyss. Castiel had quickly hardened himself to cacophony of souls upon breaching Hell’s gate with the rest of his garrison. It had been hard to ignore at first; though Castiel was known as one of the most obedient angels in the garrison, he also had an inexplicable soft spot for humanity.   
  
He and his brothers had laid siege to Hell for roughly four months by Earth’s time. However, for the angels time had stretched and warped, weeks turning into months, months into years. As of now, Castiel had spent close to forty human years in this oppressive pit of despair, fighting demons in pursuit of a single man. Dean Winchester: a righteous man in the bowels of Hell. Though Castiel had heard of this man before he was sent on his mission, the angel had never dared to peek in on the Winchester. Even if he had wanted to, he had not been ordered to do so. In fact, before Dean’s descent into the underworld, there had been an unspoken order hanging in the air to  leave the human alone.   
  
Now, though, he had different orders. Now every piece of Castiel’s existence was thrown towards the man.   
  
Another surge of demons surged up and over Castiel and his kin. While they were unable to kill angels, some of the stronger demons were able to cause pain and banish the soldiers back to Heaven. With every angel that was put out of commission, the slower the garrison’s siege on Hell could advance. One of Castiel’s brothers fell beside him under a horde of demons, screaming in dismay. Even as the angel’s voice weakened the spirits, the horde still managed to force him out of Hell. Castiel did not falter. The demons they were encountering were older, stronger than he had ever seen before. It had to mean that they were closing in on Dean and his torturer. He pressed on deeper, spurred by holy wrath and the promise of a redemption that lay ahead.   
  
Another hour, another day, another week. Time was no longer relevant to Castiel, his existence pared down to a constant  now,  simple vicious intent and determination and  pushing.  Always pushing forward, aware of his brothers and sisters around him, behind him as they penetrated further into the depths. No before, no after. Just now, followed by another.   
  
And another. Time measured by the fall of his sword.   
  
Another, and suddenly there were no more demons to cause Castiel to stumble from his path.   
There was only Dean Winchester, surrounded by the torn and tattered souls of the damned. Dean’s soul still clung to its earthly form, clad in the clothing he had worn that final day in May. Clutched in his hand was a simple blade, the metal hidden by a coat of blood. It was a simple tool, but the damage inflicted on the caged souls was enough to shake an angel. The other warriors faltered in their momentum at the sight. Heaven implemented torture, but Dean had fallen into the hands of the master. Beside him, Castiel heard Uriel make a sound of digust.   
  
This  is the righteous man we have come to save?   
  
Castiel ignored his brother ,  eyes glued on the soul in front of him. If Dean noticed the intrusion into his world of steel and blood, he was choosing to ignore it. They had barged in on the end of a day’s work, unlucky souls spent and shaking, Dean Winchester covered in their blood. The man was almost completely slicked in soot, grime and gore, the pollution of Hell creeping over him in a slow baptism of flames and filth.   
  
An effort wasted on him. Castiel’s eyes bore through the bloody, bristling exterior and concentrated on the core of his soul. Inside lay a righteous, hard spirit, unwavering in the heart of the pit. It was a steady but trembling light to the angel, in pain and horrified. Castiel felt a pang of something he did not yet know was sorrow. Even Hell could not instill this worthlessness, this self-loathing that permeated Dean’s soul. Dean thought he belonged here.   
Unable to process the tremor that jarred his being, Castiel’s wings stretched out wide and flapped in agitation. The massive wingspan stirred up the dead air, an alien breath of cooling breeze.   
  
Dean looked up.   
  
As soon as the soul moved, so did the rest of Castiel’s garrison. They flanked Dean on either side to cut off any chance of evasion, but Castiel remained where he was, still staring at the man. The Winchester met the gaze of a warrior of the lord and clutched his weapon. For now he did not make any move to attack.   
  
“What kind of fucking demon are you?” he spat, upper lip curling back in a snarl. His eyes flew up to Castiel’s wings, prompting the angel to fold them neatly behind his back.   
  
“I do not belong here,” he replied, voice buzzing with a power that sent nearby demons fleeing into the shadows. “And neither are you, Dean Winchester. Come with us.”   
  
Castiel reached forward, and dean moved like lightening, hurling his knife towards the center of the angel’s chest. The soldier did not even pause to see if the weapon found purchase in him. Their orders had been to raise Dean from Hell. There had been no mention of asking for his permission first.   
  
Somewhere in his mind, Castiel knew that he was not worth of this task. It was not every day, or millennium for that matter, that an angel raised a soul from Hell. This honor should fall to a higher angel, one that blazed with the glory of their father. However, it was  his  hand that clamped down around Dean’s arm, yanking him to his chest without a second thought. Here in a spiritual realm, there was no risk in human-to-angel contact. Castiel’s brothers had not objected when he initiated contact with the human. Now, he could sense a wave of discontent growing in at least one of his kind. Even so, now that Castiel had Dean, he could no sooner break from his hold than the Earth could stray from its course around the sun. Unfurling his wings, Castiel reached out with his Grace. It was useless to try and leave Hell the same way that he had entered. Even if there were no further attacks, the journey would take time that the Host could not afford. The faster alternative would cost Castiel a huge amount of energy, but angels were not made to balk in the face of sacrifice.   
  
Even as Dean’s soul cursed and pushed at him in a vain attempt to escape, the Grace found a weak point in the fabric of Hell, slashing open a hole through the physical realm. It was a small opening, only there for a moment, but it was enough time for Castiel to rocket up and out, leaving the rest of his garrison behind.   
  
The moment after Castiel and the soul pushed their way out Hell, the two touched down on the Earthly plane. It was, to put it delicately, a “rough landing.” Castiel had never pulled such a stunt before, and he landed in a flurry of light and feathers as they hit the ground rolling. He had been aiming for a large wooded area out of Pontiac, Illinois. Now, the force that had launched them out of Hell propelled them almost a half-mile farther, mowing down shrubs and the occasional unfortunate tree in their path. Eventually, they ground to a stop. Unlike Dean’s mouth.   
  
“—of a  bitch  I don’t know what the hell you’re doing but you’ve gotta be the worst demon I’ve ever seen. Where the  fuck  is my knife? Alistair’s gonna rip my guts out all over again if he finds out I lost it.”   
  
“Gone,” Castiel replied curtly. Though he could not damage a souls nonexistent ears, birds erupted out of the trees at the sound of his voice. “You do not need it any longer.” This earned him a sound of derision from the man in his arms. When Dean tried to free himself, this time Castiel let him go. The trip from Hell had drained him more than he expected. There was no point wasting further energy restraining Dean now. Castiel watched him carefully as the man struggled to his feet, making sure that he was not showing any signs of bolting.    
  
“Remain close to me,” he ordered, slowly stretching out one wing, then the other, to check for possible damage. “You are vulnerable until I am able to procure a vessel.”   
  
Castiel had been communicating with one James Novak during his stint in Hell, reaching out through messages on the television and minor miracles. The vessel was a righteous man, but had not yet given Castiel permission to enter his body.   
  
Dean waited a beat, then promptly turned and started to walk away from his rescuer. Castiel did not experience anger, nor frustration. Instead, there was only a blank confusion. He, an angel of the lord, had obeyed his father’s will and pulled Dean from the flames of Hell. Why would Dean go against his orders? One great wing swept out in an arch, easily knocking the man off of his feet.   
  
Perhaps he had not heard him the first time.   
  
Tilting his head to one side, Castiel looked down at his charge.   
  
“Stay with me,” he repeated, slower this time. “I will build you a new body, in the image of the old. Until then, you are at risk of coming into interference with my father’s plan.”   
  
“Oh yeah? What risk?” Dean snapped, still pinned under a great, feathery mass.   
  
“Being rediscovered by demons.”   
  
For the first time, something the angel said seemed enough to cow Dean into a moment of silence. Castiel could not hel but wonder at a man who experienced Hell firsthand, but was being uncooperative with his rescuing angel.  Demons  were real enough to take seriously. Why wasn’t he?   
  
“It does not matter right now what you assume me to be,” he continued. “But I raised you from the Pit. That is not a matter of argument. Stay here, and the likelihood that you will face immediate danger is small.” As he spoke, Castiel slowly raised the wing that had been restraining Dean. Now that he understood fully, the man would wait quietly while Castiel contacted James and—   
  
No, he was walking away again.   
  
“Doesn’t matter if you’re a flying fruitbat, I’ve gotta find Sammy. He’s going to want to know I’m back.”   
  
“You will not make it, Dean.”   
  
Castiel raised his voice for emphasis, and the trees shook to their roots. Dean stumbled, but he still did not look back. Despite the human’s determination, Castiel was not worried that he would actually be able to escape. Even with his true form compressed to a tiny eight feet or so, there was no risk of Dean getting the slip.   
  
First Castiel was behind Dean, and then he was not. The Winchester skidded to a halt, but he didn’t seem set back by Castiel’s sudden appearance inches away from his face.   
  
“You’re not gonna stop me,” he snarled, glaring up at his savior. “Even if I have to drag your dayglo ass with me, I’m getting back to my brother.”   
  
“I know,” Castiel replied, lowering his voice back to a manageable level. “But not right now.” The angel unfolded his wings around Dean, simultaneously cradling him from harm and blocking any last chance of escape.”You will have to forget your form for a while.”   
  
Ghosts and souls in the afterlife were remarkably maudlin. They would cling to an echo of their body’s old form for centuries, for eternity, in the case of souls in Heaven. However, all souls had an alternate, basic form. This was much smaller, and more convenient to hide from demons and over-enthusiastic Reapers. Ignoring Dean’s protests, Castiel traced his hands up the human’s arms, forcing the soul to collapse in on itself into a swirling mass of light. In only a few seconds, Dean fit neatly in Castiel’s hands. In this form the soul no longer knew how to speak, but Castiel could feel the anger and shock radiating from it. If he concentrated, the angel could tap into Dean’s inner monologue, yelling confined to a head he no longer technically had.   
  
Where are you planning on sticking me Sammy’s going to ram salt down your throat and marinate you in holy water I swear—   
  
When Castiel responded, it was aloud. This was his first time dealing with a soul, and he wasn’t sure if angel telepathy and souls were compatible.   
  
“Stop shouting at me,” he said, voice as low as he could make it. “This is the safest place you could ever be.” Even though Castiel had never attempted this before, had never even spoken to a brother who had held a human in this manner, he did not hesitate. The angel pressed Dean’s soul against his chest, then  into  it, his Grace and essence reaching out to envelop it. No demon could harm a soul wrapped in angelic armor.   
  
The thought comforted Castiel for a moment, before he gave a jolt, and fell to the ground in a shaking heap of feathers and confusion.   
  
Oh, father help him.   
  



End file.
